


Coffee shop date

by fandomfan



Series: James Dates [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Carriage Chat, Developing Relationship, Gen, Idealistic Notions, London era, M/M, Pre-Slash, Tumblr Prompt, Weighted Use of First Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 20:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfan/pseuds/fandomfan
Summary: Thomas takes James out to a surprise destination.





	Coffee shop date

**Author's Note:**

> When a list of date suggestions showed up on my Tumblr dashboard, I figured it only made sense to send James on a bunch of dates with various people in various time periods. This is the first of them. They’re all in the same universe, but each stands alone.

“Where are we bound, my Lord?” James has cause to ask, as the carriage carrying Lord Hamilton and himself turns in an unexpected direction.

“I’ve a surprise for you today, Lieutenant.” Hamilton looks secretive and pleased with himself. It is not unlike a small child’s expression, and James finds it charming. God help him, after these months of working together, he often finds Hamilton’s whims charming.

“A surprise taking us into East London is perhaps a surprise for which we ought to have a few more men with us, my Lord,” he says gruffly. “For your protection.” Charmed or no, there is no reason to be foolhardy about the man’s safety.

Hamilton’s smile deepens, grows fonder. “You are good to worry after me, Lieutenant, but where we are bound today is no cause for concern. Today I should like us to leave aside this ‘valiant protector and coddled nobleman’ foolishness of yours and be equals.”

James cannot help his disbelieving snort, nor the roll of his eyes as they walk once more upon this oft-trod ground. “My Lord! It is hardly foolishness when you insist on ignoring the plain truth of the civilized world in which we live.”

“Ah!” Hamilton says with a grin. “Miranda shall owe me five shillings.”

“For what, my Lord?”

“I bet her I should be able to cause that particular smirk of yours within five minutes of our departure.” Hamilton’s face is lit with merriment. In his powdered wig and dove grey suit, he looks the absolute picture of self-satisfied British gentry. Despite himself, James wants to acquiesce to such assured joviality.

“And what particular smirk might that be, my Lord?” he asks, playing along with a sigh, the exasperation of which is perhaps slightly exaggerated.

Hamilton brightens even more. He leans forward in the carriage and is suddenly very close. “That one right there,” he says. “The one that indicates you are thinking me a foolish, naive aristocrat, hopelessly ill-equipped to engage with the less savoury realities of the world, and yet, try as you might to be the stoic, proper Navy man, you are so amused by me that– yes, just there!– that one corner of your mouth escapes upwards.”

James can feel that he is indeed, despite all efforts to the contrary, smiling as Hamilton describes. Very exactly as Hamilton describes, in fact. Hamilton, who is leant forward and grinning at him victoriously. And looking at his mouth.

The moment holds a beat beyond what is proper.

James shakes his head to clear it, suppressing his instinctive regret as Hamilton sits back and meets his eyes again. “My Lord,” he begins, steering the conversation to safer shores, “You still have not told me where we are going.”

It is Hamilton’s turn to sigh theatrically. “Very well,” he says. “If you will not congratulate me on my winnings from my lady wife, I say it is in bad form, but as a gentleman I shall leave it be.” He looks out the window, assessing. “I meant what I said. We are going to spend the afternoon in a place where you and I can be equals.”

“I know you favour such thoughts, my Lord, but truly, there is not such a place,” James answers. This is one of Hamilton’s pet philosophies: that men should be measured by their intellect and moral character, rather than their station. It is a pet philosophy easily held by a man born to wealth and ease. James finds it admirable, but utterly without practicality.

“Ah, but there you are wrong, Lieutenant,” Hamilton crows. “I have searched for such a place, I have found it, and today I am taking you there.”

“And where might such a mystical place be found, my Lord?” James asks, indulgent if sceptical.

“The Turk’s Head,” says Hamilton, then goes on in his evident eagerness. “It is one of the oldest coffeehouses in London, and for the price of a penny, you or I or a tanner or a barrister or a Peer of the Realm may enter to debate politics and philosophy with all men gathered.” He is grinning with excitement, pleased with himself, clearly, but also evincing the sort of fervour that James has come to find extremely persuasive.

“I know of the place, my Lord,” James says carefully. “Though I have never been. I– I should like to go. Very much.” He pauses, uncertain how he can properly express his thanks. He settles, awkwardly, on, “It is a good surprise.”

“Lieutenant,” Hamilton says, soft. “James, if I may?” And James cannot deny that something in him leaps to hear his Christian name on Hamilton’s lips. He nods his permission, and Hamilton continues. “I have come to value your opinions quite highly. You are possessed of a clever and talented mind like few others I have met.” He pauses, then continues delicately. “I know my salons are not always a place you feel at ease.”

“My Lord!” James begins, protests leaping into his mouth. But Hamilton hushes him gently.

“It is all right,” he says. “They are full of men who sometimes have difficulty seeing beyond the lucky accidents of their birth to acknowledge that a self-improving Naval lieutenant might offer a more convincing argument on any given topic.” Hamilton’s voice, that voice James has so often heard ringing out in passionate defense of impractical ideals is now a quiet, velvet, careful thing. “Some of them are not worth your right boot heel, James,” he practically whispers. “I want to take you somewhere you will feel free to share your thoughts without discomfort.”

James is struck silent by this. He stares at Hamilton, all blue eyes and flushed cheeks and conviction. Perhaps this is what it is to be ensorcelled. “That is very good of you, my Lord,” he finally manages, though his voice cracks over the _good_.

Hamilton stares back, and something unexpectedly tentative comes over his face. “Might I...” he begins and trails off. “Might you...” he tries again. Tentative _and_ lost for words. “I should very much like you to call me Thomas. If you would.”

James’s heart is beating like mad in his breast, and he fears the heat in his face means he has gone quite pink. The beastly thing of it is, it appears that Hamilton is in something of a similar state, though why that might be James cannot fathom. Somehow, this inexplicable shared discomfort is what soothes James, what makes him clear his tightened throat and finally say, “Very well... Thomas.”

And the way that man’s smile blooms to fill his entire face makes James’s unease disappear like vapour beneath the warmth in his chest. “Thank you, James.”

The carriage jostles to a halt. They have arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m dreaming about all the dates James and Thomas went on over at Tumblr. Come join me.


End file.
